What the Angels Told Me
by Aerides
Summary: What if Erik managed to escape the gypsy camp early on and got taken in by a foster family? What if Gustaav Daae hadn't died all those years ago? How would the story have changed?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer - I don't own phantom. *weeps***

**Summary - What if Erik managed to escape the gypsy camp early on and got taken in by a foster family? What if Gustaav Daae hadn't died all those years ago? How would the story have changed?**

**A/N - ****Erik doesn't wear a mask in this story for reasons that will be explained later on. His is deformity is based (loosely) on Von Recklinghausen disease so would look more like the design in the stage musical than the book. Confusingly I ended up using the book a lot for Christine's character, making her a bit older than the musical and a bit more...qualified?**

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><p>In the smoky chaos of the Gare de l'Est stood a rather unusual figure. He emerged from the billowing steam of the overnight train from Zurich, his long woollen coat almost touching the ground and his wide brimmed had pulled down over most of his face but not quite obscuring what appeared to be the excessive scarring underneath. There was no doubt that this was the man Monsieur Reyer had volunteered to meet. The man appeared to be about twenty years his junior, but in spite of his unfortunate appearance his eyes held an authority that dissipated any pity Reyer might have been feeling. He had been well informed about the details of the talented young conductor and occasional composer and had known what to expect, but he dreaded to think about how the rest of the company would react.<p>

Erik Johan Spielmann was undoubtedly a rising star in Vienna, although a certain degree of prejudice and more than a few professional enemies had hindered his career. People would find any excuse to cut a person down it seemed, because from what he had heard of the man's symphonic works Reyer could not believe that kind of talent could be so underrated. When the stranger had applied for the position of musical director at the Opera Garnier after the announcement of Monsieur Reyer's retirement, the older man had not hesitated to recommend him to the new management. It was a controversial choice perhaps, hiring a foreigner; a penniless composer with Jewish roots and a visible handicap, but Reyer had won in the end and through some strange instinct he knew that the Opera would be left in capable hands.

"Herr Spielmann, I presume." He said cheerfully holding out his hand.

"You presume correctly, and you must be Monsieur Reyer." The younger man replied and awkwardly shook his hand. His manners were polite yet strained and his French was excellent but still held traces of an accent.

The pair left the station into the mid-morning sunlight deciding to visit Herr Spielmann's lodgings first to drop off his luggage, then straight to the opera for an informal tour. Reyer was surprised that the new director had come alone and without a manservant but thought it rude to ask. The cab driver kindly helped them with the heavy trunk and cases and earned a generous tip in doing so. They quickly arrived at the Rue des Rosiers, where Herr Spielmann explained that a friend of his father's had agreed to rent a room to him. The area was unfamiliar to Reyer although it was within walking distance from the opera. It was the kind of place that had once been majestic but had become shabby from years of neglect. As he listened, not a word of French could be heard from its inhabitants that surrounded them but a mixture of German dialects that he did not understand. The room in question turned out to be above an antiquarian book shop, its dusty shelves carrying a respectable but mostly foreign collection. As they entered the building they were greeted by a wizened Austrian gentleman mostly hidden behind a cloud of wispy facial hair, Reyer assumed this was the family friend come landlord. There were introductions, and handshaking and keys exchanged and conversations that Reyer only half understood with his rudimentary German. "How is your father's health?" ect.

"It doesn't matter much to me, but my father insisted that I live here." Herr Spielmann explained once the little man, whose name was Herr Oppenheimer, was out of earshot. It might have been Reyer's imagination but it seemed as though he was a little embarrassed at the humble room they had just entered. "...Something to do with embracing the familiar."

Reyer nodded. "Well, I suppose he'd want you to be reminded of home in a strange city."

"Home is a state of mind, monsieur." His companion said. "Its location is relative."

Erik carefully inspected the room like a cat exploring uncertain territory. It was small but clean and well maintained, simply decorated in white with dark wooden furniture. There was a brass bed, a wash-stand, a desk, a wardrobe and chest of drawers and to his amusement someone had moved an old upright piano into the corner, Frau Oppenheimer most likely. In a way it didn't matter what was in the room. Erik was a man of very few possessions, the type of man who only returned home to sleep and spent the rest of his time working. Erik had many acquaintances and colleagues but very few true friends. He was well thought of back in Vienna, but never truly respected. Whether it was his face, his status as an orphan or the religion of his foster family, someone would always put him down. It frustrated him to no end that he would receive praise on his work as a conductor or on his compositions but be disregarded thanks to something so insignificant. Erik had learned a long time ago that he would always be faced with a certain degree of persecution. It had left him hardened and self contained and as stubborn as a barnacle.

There had been a time when he had wanted nothing more than to hide away forever, perhaps wear mask and sink into an eternal state of anonymity. There had been a time when he had wanted to end his own life which was most likely the reason why he had been pressured to stay with a family friend instead of living alone in a foreign country. That fact that one person cared for his welfare in such a way was the very reason he had not been able to go through with it. One of the few certainties in Erik's life was that if it hadn't been for his foster father, he would have died a long time ago. It pained him to remember his early life, abandoned at birth in a foundling hospital, sold only six years later to a travelling carnival, always moving, always hungry. They had travelled all over Europe although he hadn't seen any of it, but as the caravan had approached Vienna his jailers had met with disaster. A disaster for them, but a blessing for him for at the end of it all he found himself taken into the care of a man named Dr Johan Spielmann and his ageing mother and the nameless 'devil's spawn' had finally found a home.

"I suppose it shall do for now until you can find somewhere larger." His companion said cheerily, perhaps little too cheerily. The man obviously felt nervous around him, after all there weren't many good things about the persona he put forth. "And of course you'll have plenty of reading material."

"Yes, that is bonus isn't it." Erik replied. "Now, I believe you suggested paying a visit to the opera."

As the two men strolled the short distance to the Palais Garnier the conversation slipped onto the easy topic of work. Actually, work was probably Erik's only conversation topic since it was all he did and was certainly the only means in which he interacted with other people. So when Reyer revealed that the managers would most likely be throwing a ball to celebrate his appointment the new director could only groan slightly in annoyance.

"It's only to appease the patrons, Herr Spielmann, so they can meet you in person. You know what they're like, they always want to think they have a say in things."

"I think it's fairly obvious that they won't like me. Perhaps they should skip the festivities and save some time."

"Ah, but half of them are only there for the festivities. Any excuse really." Reyer joked.

The opera house had only been finished a few years previously. He was briskly shown around the empty stage and orchestra pit, the rehearsal rooms one of which was filled with chattering ballerinas and the offices. Everything was exquisite but such a grandiose investment needed to be a success and Erik was fully aware that the management had taken a considerable risk in appointing him. The magnitude of the job hit him, even more than leaving Vienna or living in a new place. This was what everything depended on, his ability to pull the finest performance possible from the well oiled machine that was the orchestra and vocalists. The creative director could weave a story, the designers and seamstresses could create a world of illusion, but if there was no music the opera would be reduced to nothing.

"Gustaave! Don't tell me she roped you into accompanying the dance rehearsal again." Reyer's voice interrupted Erik's neurotic train of thought as another gentleman passed them in the foyer. He was older than Erik although perhaps not as old as Monsieur Reyer. He was thin and had a sickly look to him that his cheerful smile couldn't quite conceal.

"I can't exactly say no to Mme. Giry now, can I? The woman's powers of persuasion are quite terrifying." The new arrival replied taking a pair of gloves out of his coat pocket and slipping them on.

"Herr Spielmann, allow me to introduce you to Gustaave Daae, arguably our most talented violinist." Reyer said with a wry smile.

The violinist, Gustaav Daae, was visibly startled by Erik's appearance but the conductor was used to that kind of reaction. The collection of growths that covered more than half of his face weren't pleasant to look at. The other man would then either try not to stare out of awkward politeness, or openly gawk at him. Thankfully, Daae did the former and hesitantly shook his hand.

"Wonderful to finally meet you, Herr Spielmann, the whole company has talked of nothing else all week." Gustaav said, his unease quickly giving way to the kind of condescending cheerfulness that people often greeted him with. It used to get on Erik's nerves, but he had learned to tolerate it over the years.

Erik's condition, which had only recently been given a name, was an inherited disease. The main symptoms of this were a number of benign tumours and lesions on and under his skin, the worst of it appearing on the right side of his face and down his neck and right shoulder blade. His right eye whose pupil should have been greyish blue like its partner was freckled with unusual spots making the eye appear brown from a distance and rendering it almost blind. His forehead was larger than average which only seemed to enhance the distortion and he had once been prone to fits as a child.

"How do you do?" the conductor replied "Forgive me Monsieur, but weren't you one of the late Professor Valerius's protégés in the Royal Academic Orchestra?"

"Oh, you knew the professor?" the older man's seemed taken aback at this and seemed to relax a little, as if to imply that any friend of the Professor's must be worth knowing.

"He was staying in Vienna when I was a student. He was a truly inspirational man." Erik replied. The eccentric aristocrat turned professor of Music Theory had been an invaluable friend and patron at the beginning of his career.

"I think a lot of people would agree with you, Monsieur. Now if she ever manages to escape from those chattering ballerinas, my daughter and I were about to have lunch. Perhaps you gentlemen would care to join us?" Daae continued suddenly seeming eager to discuss the subject of their late mentor further, Erik was about to make his excuses and politely turn him down when from across the foyer he caught glimpse of a pre-Raphaelite angel demurely descending the grand staircase.

Erik had never had many opportunities when it came to meeting women. He generally kept his distance knowing that he would probably repulse even the most saintly of females, and kept his professional interactions with singers and performers as brief as possible. So when he was faced with the vision before him in a black cord jacket and dark blue skirts all thoughts seemed to simultaneously leave his brain and he knew that he was in trouble.

She couldn't have been more than eighteen years old and bore a great likeness to the ageing violinist before him; the same blue eyes and the same broad smile.

"Ah Christine, there you are." Daae called and gestured for the heavenly creature to join them. "This is Erik Spielmann, he'll be taking over as musical director next season."

Erik could almost feel the mortification building up inside him as the girl looked up at him nervously, expecting her to scream or faint at the sight of him. He wasn't being paranoid, things like that had happened to him before. Instead upon hearing his name the beautiful creature suddenly brightened and even held out her hand with a shy "Good day, Monsieur." He did not dare kiss it; for fear that he would surely infect such a beautiful offering even through her kid gloves. He shook it instead, feeling the warmth of her skin even through the two layers of soft leather they were wearing, but the moment was over far too soon and he was left feeling awkward and terribly rude for greeting her so bluntly.

"Well gentlemen, shall we be off?" he heard her father say cheerfully, and instead of declining as he had planned, Erik could only nod dumbly hardly able to tear his eyes away from that curious smile.

Whenever she thought back to the first time she met Erik Spielmann, Christine would always feel slightly ashamed that the first thing she felt was pity. While his face had played a part in this reaction, she had imagined how difficult having such a handicap must be in such an unforgiving world and had felt it.

She also noticed how uncomfortable he looked in that wide and golden foyer with its sculpted angels, as though he wanted to disappear into himself and hide away. She could have lied to herself and named the feeling compassion or sympathy but in the darkest recesses of her conscience she knew that it was pity and nothing else.

How foolish she had been to pity such a brilliant man. Her father had brought her into the circle, his hand resting lightly between her shoulder blades, overprotective as always, and had introduced them. And all at once she had realised that the strange and shy man she had pitied was in fact someone she had known for years, not in person of course, but through her studies.

This was the creator of some of her favourite pieces that obscure though they were and in spite of their simple composition were maddeningly difficult to play or sing and filled her with satisfaction upon mastering them. His music was filled with a strange folksong-like magic, a timeless beauty that reminded her of many a carefree summer by the sea during her childhood. It reminded her of the Swedish market towns and weary travellers. And all at once she found herself unable to speak, she often felt self-conscious at the best of times but this sudden attack of shyness seemed extreme even for her.

Throughout her time at the conservatoire, Christine had felt that this was the direction that music should be taking. It was the driving factor behind her decision to study composition in addition to her voice lessons. She had been given the luxury of a generous allowance for her studies left to her in Dr Valerius' will, more than enough to simply train as a singer as they had originally planned. So she had decided to expand her studies and put the money to good use.

Raoul had laughed when she had announced it, saying surely she had enough work to do already and what on earth would she want to write music for of all things. But then Raoul didn't really understand the arts, he had tried to learn the violin once when they were children but even her father who was the most supportive man in the whole world had gently told him to put it down and never touch the instrument again. As much as she loved her oldest friend, the young man's obvious privilege had begun to drive a wedge between them. Things like class didn't matter when you were children, but as they had journeyed into adulthood it would often rear its ugly head. In spite of their tearful goodbye as he had left with the navy, Christine had not missed him as much as she thought she would.

The four of them ate a simple lunch at one of the cafes nearby and talked about the upcoming season over generous portions of soup d'Indo-Chine and brown bread. The three men mainly discussed the current production of Anna Bolena. Erik noticed that Christine had remained silent throughout the meal, although whether it was through shyness or boredom was debatable. Either that or his face was beginning to put her off her lunch and she was too polite to say anything. The thought made him paranoid; perhaps all the horror stories Reyer had been regaling them with about the company's resident diva, La Carlotta had made him anxious. He was normally good at dealing with difficult performers, in fact he had earned a bit of a reputation as an absolute tyrant, but this was a new theatre in a foreign country. What if nobody respected him?

"But who knows, perhaps in a year or two Mlle. Daae will be joining the company. It will be good to finally have some new talent around." Reyer said, the mention of the girl's name suddenly bringing him out of his neurotic daze and back into the room.

"You're a singer?" he asked, turning to look directly at the quiet young woman beside him.

"Yes, but I'm still studying." Christine replied, barely above a whisper.

"My daughter is a promising talent, monsieur. We're all very proud of her." Daae chimed in making the girl blush "Promising, yet extremely modest. Dr Valerius left us a portion of his will for her to attend the Conservatoire de Paris."

"That's very generous." Erik exclaimed, if the doctor had been willing to fund her education then it was fair to say that the girl possessed a formidable musical ability.

"Yes, I'm very grateful." Christine nodded; very few women were able to complete their studies at the conservatoire.

"Yes, I was asked to give a lecture there in a few weeks. Perhaps you'd like to attend." He replied, and perhaps it was his imagination but he could have sworn that her eyes lit up.

"It would be an honour, Monsieur. That would be wonderful."

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><p><strong>AN - Well after a long period of writing art history papers and subsequently having writer's block I finally had an idea. Is it worth continuing though, that is the question. Please read and review and I'll love you forever.**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Disclaimer – I don't own phantom.

A/N – Hiya, sorry it's been a while. My laptop died and I had backed up everything except this chapter (because I'm a derp) and I had to rewrite most of it. So yes hopefully will be back on some sort of writing schedule depending on work.

Every Sunday, Christine and her father would wake up at six and walk from their tiny flat on the Rue de Londres to the Madeline where Christine sang regularly with the choir. They would then spend the day together provided there were no rehearsals to attend, taking walks in the park if the weather was nice and even venturing out to the Ile de la Grande Jatte on occasion. Then every Sunday evening like clockwork they would join Madame Valerius, the widow of their former patron, for a quiet supper at her house. Christine was always grateful for these Sundays. Two years earlier her father had fallen gravely ill which had left them anxious and determined to never take life or each other for granted. Raoul would always tease her, perhaps with a tinge of annoyance, that she and her father were joined at the hip. Christine would always laugh and argue that she could say the same for Raoul and that horrible brother of his.

"A little bird, and by that I mean that flustered chaffinch known as Reyer, told me that the new director was arriving today." Mme Valerius said lightly sipping her claret. They sat at the dining room table to a roast goose and vegetables, the elderly woman at the head in her wheelchair with her nurse by her side always hovering and silent.

"Yes, we actually had lunch with Herr Spielmann earlier today." Gustaav said.

"You mean to say that he voluntarily dined with the two of you in public?" the old woman laughed "Perhaps you're talking about another Erik Spielmann."

"He mentioned you and your late husband, Madame." Gustaav added "He spoke very fondly of you."

A small white lie to flatter her, the new director hadn't mentioned her at all, and Christine should have known as she had hung on his every word. His face might have been half ruined but his speaking voice might well have been one of the most beautiful things she had ever heard. The timbre seemed so very rich it was almost hypnotic. She wondered if he sang at all. Perhaps she could speak to him after his lecture and ask all those questions that had been raging in her mind but had been struck dumb with her infernal shyness.

"Yes, Claude brought him home once when we were living in Vienna. He struck me as a strange one, but was such a sweet boy once he came out of his shell. Yes, I think the Opera will be in safe hands." She turned to Christine "And what did you think of him my dear?"

Christine almost jumped as she was pulled from her thoughts and blushed. "Well we didn't really talk but he seemed very…capable."

"Didn't talk? The man invited you to his lectures, he might as well have asked you to audition right there in the restaurant." Her father interrupted.

"Papa!" Christine scolded. He was always jumping to those sorts of conclusions.

"Listen to your father; he may well be right this time. I've never heard of Herr Spielmann inviting anyone to anything in his life. He could become an invaluable mentor, my dear." Mme Valerius agreed. "Do you think you will accept this invitation?"

"Of course, it'll be useful for my composition studies." The girl replied "And he'll surely recognise me, I'll be the only one in a dress."

"Darling, very few women have achieved your level of academic success. And I know you have to work twice as hard for half the recognition. But you possess something quite extraordinary, your father sees it, I can see it, my husband saw it and made all of this possible. I have a feeling the new director will see it too." The old woman stated with a fierce certainty, halting the conversation briefly with its magnitude. "And how is that sweetheart of yours, still sailing the high seas?"

"He is well, although it's been a while since I've heard anything. But then I suppose the postal system in Hanoi isn't up to scratch." She joked, but was secretly worried; the situation Hanoi was becoming a regular fixture in the papers and she knew that soon it would be far graver than the exotic adventure her friend had dreamed of. She worried that his letters, that had once arrived every week with a militant regularity had become sporadic and brief. She may have been beginning to tire of his advances when he had left all those months ago, but Christine was still fond of him, he was her oldest friend after all and she could not bear the thought of him being hurt or even killed on the other side of the world.

"I'm sure things will settle down there soon." Mme Valerius reassured, her eyesight might have been failing but she had a razor sharp mind and was able to pick up on her every emotional waver. "He'll be back before you know it."

From the desk of Dr Johann Spielmann

_My dear boy_

_You have only just left this morning but by the time you read this letter you will already be in Paris. I know I've already told you how proud I am but I cannot help repeating myself. Do not let yourself become intimidated by those around you. Look to our history and to your own achievements and realise that the 'outcasts' of this world can create wondrous things in the face of adversity. Remember to not overwork yourself and to make sure you eat. I know you think I'm an old fool for nagging but old habits die hard. _

_Allow me to offer one more piece of fatherly advice. As you're well aware, you were born in France and raised as a foundling not far from the city that will be your new home. I would caution you to not go looking for traces of your past; you may not like what you find. I know that I cannot stop you, that this is partly why you accepted your new position in the first place. I can only wish you luck and pray that you find what you are searching for._

_Write to me often to let me know you are well…_

_Your loving father._

Erik folded the letter and placed it back in his envelope his father had hidden in his luggage before he had left Vienna. The warning of the note and its quiet but sad resignation touched his heart in a way that nothing else could. Somehow his adopted father had a way of knowing what troubled him without even discussing it. Sometimes the greying doctor knew even before he did himself.

The old man was right, what would he possibly achieve by chasing old ghosts? But at the same time he could not rest without answers, what had lead him to be found in a gypsy camp in the Austrian countryside? Had it been his face that had led to his abandonment or something else? Why torture himself with that question when he already knew the answer?

For a moment he wondered whether coming here was such a good idea. But then he thought of the Daae girl and no longer regretted his decision.

"No stop thinking like that, Erik." His rational mind cut in to his train of thought. "She's far too young. And besides, why would a girl like that ever want anything to do with a troll like you?"

He glanced at the disfigured side of his face in the small oval of his shaving mirror and grimaced. No the girl was only interested in talking to him in an academic context and possibly a professional one if Reyer had told her his decision to audition for new company members in the new season. Therefore he would have to ignore any feelings of infatuation that were already brewing in his chest and speak to her only as a teacher would to his student. And so with heavy disappointment, Erik told himself not to dream about Christine Daae.

The next day Erik rose just before dawn, the nightmares that plagued him regularly combined with his anxiety and the ominous message from his father had left him unable to go back to sleep. Today was the day that he would formerly be introduced to the opera company and he had a feeling they wouldn't be as polite as Monsieur Daae. He had no appetite for the breakfast Frau Oppenheimer provided even though the old woman meant well.

Normally he would go for a run to calm his nerves but the shop was in a busy area and he did not wish to be gawked at that morning. He missed the remoteness of his childhood home, his adopted grandmother's gentle smile which would forever remain lodged in his memory even though she had long since passed away, the birds he used to mimic as a young boy, the crystal lake where he had learned to swim and row.

Instead he hired a carriage to take him to the Opera Populaire and did his best to concentrate on nicer things than his impending humiliation. In that moment Christine Daae crossed his troubled thoughts and he allowed himself a small and tentative fantasy. He would run into her at the conservatoire and she would smile at him again. Only this time she would not be so shy and impeded by that pushy father of hers and they would be able to talk about her progress with her dissertation or what a nightmare taking over from Reyer was going to be. Then maybe she would let him escort her home, agree to see him again.

'Get your head out of the clouds Erik; you have a better chance of flying to the moon than meeting with a girl like that.' He sighed, he would be thirty five in a few months and he had never been alone with a woman. And professionally he had made more women cry than he would like to admit, and men too come to think of it. He had a reputation in Vienna as something of an ogre. It seemed fitting somehow given his mottled complexion.

He arrived at the opera house with a few minutes to spare and ventured into the building slipping on the cool and impassive mask of professionalism, donning an air of confidence, flimsy as it was. He may be an ugly and frightening ogre but he knew how to run things and he was a damn good music director, one of the best for someone his age. With a face like his he had to be the best.

The day felt like one horror after another. Monsieur Reyer greeted him with his usual good natured nervousness and had publicly introduced him to the entire company once they had arrived. Ballerinas had gawked, stage hands had whispered and the resident diva had looked at him and had theatrically fainted. If that had been the only misfortune that had befallen him that day he would have been able to brush himself off and soldier on. He had simply sat in and observed while Monsieur Reyer worked out the finer details of Anna Bolena. The dress rehearsal was looming and the cast was severely under prepared, and while Ubaldo Piangi had been charismatic as King Henry, La Carlotta's Boleyn made him cringe and the less he thought about the madness scene the better.

"I heard you had a run in with the screeching flamingo." Daae the violinist joked lightly when the rehearsal had finally ended.

"Is that what you call her?"

"It's just a little nickname the boys in the orchestra gave her." The older man chuckled "She didn't really faint you know, she just can't stand to not be the centre of attention. But don't worry, I've heard a rumour that when the managers announce Reyer's retirement they'll also be announcing hers" his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper "whether she agrees to or not."

"I wouldn't believe everything you hear monsieur, Monsieur Reyer hasn't mentioned it." Erik replied.

"If she were willing to take on roles that suited her age a little better, there wouldn't be a problem. But like I said, the woman is a complete exhibitionist. She'll accept nothing less than the lead and Reyer for all his other talents is terrible with confrontations."

"How long have you been working here, Monsieur Daae?"

"Oh it must be at least ten years now. Did you know that they end every season here with a gala performance of Faust. I cannot tell you how much I despite that thing, I swear we could probably all play it in our sleep if we had to. Ah, now here's a sight for sore eyes." Daae grinned as a slender woman in a dark half mourning gown approached them. "Herr Spielmann allow me to introduce Madame Giry, our resident choreographer and ballet mistress. You'll be seeing a lot of her and Monsieur Moreau I shouldn't wonder."

Madame Giry was a statuesque woman who appeared to be close to Erik's age although it was hard to tell with her matronly clothing and severe hairstyle. She looked up at him with a greeting on her tongue and her hand half raised for him to take until her gaze rested on his deformity and her warm smile disappeared entirely only to be replaced by ashen white pallor and fear and was that recognition he saw in her eyes? The cane that she walked with dropped to the floor with a deafening clatter.

"Oh forgive me madam, let me get that for you." Erik muttered, feeling mortified at the woman's reaction. As he reached for the fallen he heard her whisper a name he had spent his whole life trying to forget as Madame Giry snatched the cane from his hands and hurried into the shadows backstage. "L'Enfant du Diable"


End file.
